


roses are red, anemones are blue

by esnoyuuutsu



Series: the words fade from my lips as flowers in the night [1]
Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, and like. izumi. yeah, somehow not once does azuma question why he's dying for two people i'd fix it but nah, tasutsumu are there too for like 0.2 seconds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 20:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12515880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esnoyuuutsu/pseuds/esnoyuuutsu
Summary: Azuma's starting to feel lonely again, but what else is new.





	roses are red, anemones are blue

**Author's Note:**

> me, several months ago: i'm gonna finish writing this before next winter event starts!  
> me now, literally on last day of event:
> 
> just take it away

"Hisoka-kun, isn't the sky beautiful today? The clouds look almost like those beloved marshmallows of yours."

"Mm, yeah...it's nice and warm too, I could...just..."

"Now, now, I didn't come out here so that you could sleep on me!"

Azuma followed Homare and Hisoka's voices, softer than usual and yet still carrying across the garden. He could already see them sitting together, pale hair against red-violet, and without thinking, began to smile.

"You're too noisy, Alice."

A laugh. "And dear Hisoka-kun, do you mean to do anything about that?"

Hisoka narrowed his eyes, and his lips curled into a pout as he pulled Homare down to meet them.

Azuma stopped in his tracks and raised a hand to his mouth in an attempt to swallow an involuntary noise of shock—which failed, as Homare broke free from Hisoka and scrambled to explain himself.

"A-azuma-san—!? You see, er, Hisoka-kun and I, we——"

"No," said Azuma, laughing softly and shaking his head. "I shouldn't have interrupted. Don't mind me, I'll go back inside. You two have fun!"

As he turned away leaving them hanging, Azuma's words left a strange taste in the back of his throat. He coughed.

 

Following that, Azuma began to notice little things—the way Hisoka hung on to Homare's arm as they walked, the gentle look in Hisoka's eye even as he'd grumble about 'Alice' never shutting up, Homare's soft smile as he turned to find Hisoka fast asleep—and every time, Azuma's breath would catch and a dull ache creep up his chest. Discomforted, he would go hover around the kitchen with Izumi or Omi, or convince Misumi to colour with him using the promise of triangles—anything to keep his mind elsewhere.

And yet, unwanted questions—how long they had been going (certainly, long enough to be so at ease together but not long enough to want to tell everyone), and how far they had gotten (of course Azuma would think this, of course he would have the total lack of shame to wonder even at a time like this)—gnawed at his thoughts as he retired for the night.

Winter being split into Tsumugi and Tasuku, and then Homare, Hisoka, and Azuma had always been the norm, what with all the history the former had that the latter lacked. But the feeling of the balance shifting to Tsumugi and Tasuku, Homare and Hisoka, and then him had Azuma on edge. After all, he knew only too well how fragile relationships were, and how easily he could be left behind, yet again.

At that thought, the incessant itch in his throat flared up as if demanding attention; Azuma began to cough over and over until, with bleary eyes and shuddering breaths, something fell from his lips into his hands and the pale moonlight.

A single purple petal.

 

His old clients had told him about incidents like this: stories from a friend of a friend who knew someone that contracted a disease that made them cough up blood and flowers—no details, since more than anything it was pretext for wanting to be held and reassured that death by unrequited affection wasn't in store, at least not for them.

But as nights passed, lonely petals turned into little flowers (anemones, he later discovered) with fuzzy centres that scraped his throat as they came up, and blooming roses with thorns threatening to pierce his lungs, spilling onto the bedsheets between messy hiccuping sobs pulling him from unwelcome and new yet familiar dreams of a seat in the audience to beautiful winter plays he had no place in.

He tried to keep his condition under control, but when he began to choke up during rehearsals it became difficult to hide it from his fellow troupe members.

Brow knitted, Tasuku paused in the middle of a scene. "Azuma-san, are you alright? You sound pretty raspy."

"Should we take a break?" Tsumugi smiled, but his eyes shone with concern.

Azuma's hand went up to his neck and he blinked. "It's just a sore throat, I think. I'm fine," he said, unconvincingly, coughing halfway through as Homare had placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing the thorns ever outward.

"Shall I get some tea for you, then?" "I heard marshmallows are good for sore throats..."

They meant well, Azuma knew, but kind words only fed the thorns growing against his heart. Homare's hand felt as if it would burn through his shirt and onto his skin, and he forced himself to pull away before Hisoka, with eye trained on him, could get any closer.

"Thank you, everyone. It'll probably go away if I sleep it off, so maybe I will take that break." His voice straining as he swallowed the metallic tinge rising in his throat, Azuma made his way back to his room.

 

That evening, there was a knock on his door. Hisoka—face impassive as it usually was off-stage, but hands pulling at the ends of his sleeves—looked up at Azuma. Hoping his tired eyes and blood-flecked lips weren't as obvious as he thought they were, Azuma smiled weakly, his chest already beginning to tighten.

"...Alice's been stuck with writer's block for a while and he's even noisier than usual, so..."

Azuma bit his lip. "Hisoka, that's no reason for you to be here...it wouldn't do any good for you to catch whatever I have, you know?" Not that he was likely to be susceptible, but it was better safe than sorry.

"Yeah, I know..." Hisoka's visible eye flicked away, brow furrowing. "But you kinda take care of me when I'm sick sometimes...I thought I should do something too."

On any other occasion, Hisoka worrying about him would have Azuma laughing about what a soft marshmallow boy he was, but the flowers growing in his lungs were almost enough to hold back words, let alone laughter.

"If you really don't want me to be here, it's okay."

There was the slightest shake in Hisoka's voice, and it nearly sent Azuma reeling—he, the one who once made a living off of hitting people's weaknesses with whispered words, now fragile and unsteady from one sentence. He took as deep a breath he could, trying to pull himself together.

Azuma put on a smile.

"Now, how can I resist you?"

How indeed.

 

"Mm..." Hisoka curled up against Azuma, breath prickling and hot against his skin. "You still smell nice."

"Thank you...?" he murmured, a hint of his usual soft laugh.

Azuma hoped he couldn't hear the rattling in his chest from flowers waiting to be released, and gently placed a hand on Hisoka's hair. It burned.

"It's good," said Hisoka, drawing the sheets up around them. "Sorta smells like home, I guess."

Closing his eyes, Azuma said nothing, wrapping his arms around Hisoka, holding him close as he could possibly take without turning to ashes. They stayed like this, with only the sound of Azuma's laboured breathing as he tried to sleep even as flowers and leaves crowded his lungs—until Hisoka spoke up once more.

"Azuma..." His eyes fluttered open. "...you haven't been avoiding me, or Alice, right...?"

"What? Of course not."

That was a lie. Once he realised what was ailing him, Azuma had instinctively slipped back to his old habit of pulling away when he felt he was going to be alone again. He knew his fears were mostly unfounded this time, and that he was cared for by Winter and everyone in the company alike, but it wasn't as if he could shrug years of trauma and unhealthy coping methods off like they were nothing in the blink of an eye.

"...you sure? I guess I'd get it if you thought it was awkward or something." Face buried in Azuma's shirt and arms around his waist, Hisoka continued to talk, slightly muffled. "But...you, Alice, everyone here...are some of the things I actually remember. So I don't want you to feel bad."

Stifling the angry growing itch in his throat, Azuma smiled although Hisoka still wasn't looking at him. He petted Hisoka's hair and, voice just above a whisper, replied, "I'm...happy, just hearing you say that, and having you here. There's nothing you need to worry about, Hisoka."

He didn't have to worry, because he didn't know, and Azuma wasn't about to tell him the truth. Hisoka sighed—in relief, hoped Azuma—and held on a little tighter.

"Good night, Hisoka."

"...night, Azuma."

 

Azuma woke up in the middle of the night, wheezing, Hisoka still asleep next to him and blissfully unaware that his very existence was causing Azuma to suffocate. He took one look at that soft, sleeping face, and reached out—only to clamp his hand over his mouth, choking back the taste of salt and metal.

Making his way down from the bed and out of the room as quietly as he could, Azuma took quick steps to the bathroom and—without even closing the door behind him, unable to take it any longer—threw up in the sink. As he spat out now full-grown anemones (he had to pull at the stems to get them out) and roses (the thorns tore at his throat and cut across his tongue), Azuma thought bitterly that if this was what he got for letting people get close to him again, for starting to open his heart again, maybe he was better off the way things were before.

"...Azuma-san?"

Interrupted by a familiar voice, he looked up.

Azuma's lips pressed together, the semblance of a rueful smile. Of all the people in the company, of course, _of course_ it was Homare standing in the doorway, red-framed face and concerned eyes softly illuminated by the faint moonlight—and in spite of himself, it crossed Azuma's mind that if he were truly at the end of his rope, at least he would die in the presence of such a beautiful man. He coughed again.

"Are you alright? You don't seem..." Homare trailed off, attention turning towards the sink, clogged with disintegrated flowers and coagulating blood, almost black in the dim light.

As Azuma opened his mouth to explain (though his voice was now a shrivelled dead leaf in the back of his ragged throat), his hand slipped on the edge of the sink slick with his own blood and saliva, his already shaking legs crumbled, and he found Homare's arms closing around him, searing hot like the sun.

"This is definitely more than just a sore throat, isn't it." He sounded calm, but Azuma felt as if Homare was going to squeeze him to death before the flowers finished him off. "I...I should call an ambulance."

He clutched Homare's shirt, shaking his head weakly. The last thing Azuma needed was sirens waking up the whole company.

"Azuma-san—!" Homare began to raise his voice, then caught himself. "Azuma-san, you cannot tell me this is nothing when you can barely stand on your own feet." When he heard only the air whistling through Azuma's lungs in reply, he sighed. "...what if we wake up Miss Director and have her bring you to the hospital instead? Surely, she won't be too angry, considering your condition."

Worn out and knowing he would not relent, Azuma merely nodded, resting his head on Homare's chest. As they shifted so that he could lean against Homare as they walked, it occurred to Azuma how nice it would have been to be hand-in-hand, an arm looped around his waist, if only he weren't on the brink of death.

"I'm here, so hold on tightly to me."

Homare's hands burned and Azuma was getting dizzier by the second, but he would try, if only for a little while longer.

* * *

 

That night would stay on Homare's mind for a while after—Izumi going into a flurry upon seeing half-conscious Azuma, and driving to and from the hospital. He'd insisted on coming along, so that Izumi wouldn't be alone on the way back and, though he didn't say it, out of worry; he had never seen Azuma as anything other than his usual unruffled self, and Homare wasn't sure this—ghostly pale, disheveled hair with silver strands sticking to bloodied lips, and breath so erratic he too would stop breathing until he was sure Azuma was still alive—was how he wanted that facade to be broken.

Homare was uncharacteristically silent the way home. Azuma's illness had progressed enough for him to need surgery, and they had stayed until he was out and resting—which was well into the morning and resulted in Izumi receiving a storm of messages and a couple calls from everyone else in the company—so he thought it best not to distract her, for once.

When they arrived at the dorms, they were greeted by Sakyo, frowning and brow furrowed deeper than usual. He looked them up and down, Homare only then realising he was still wearing the same clothes Azuma had accidentally smeared blood all over the night before.

"How is Yukishiro?"

Izumi jumped at the sudden inquiry, but replied. "He has to stay at the hospital for a few more days, but we can visit him." She pulled a tired smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "The doctors said he should be better soon."

Sakyo nodded gravely and waved them off. "Get some rest as well, you two."

Gladly, thought Homare, but as he made his way back to his room, he stopped at a figure on the sofa. Clutching a stuffed penguin to his chest as a child would a blanket, shaking himself awake and wiping the sleep from his eyes as he began to nod off, was Hisoka.

Homare placed a hand on fluffy white hair, making him look up like a startled cat.

"Alice...?"

"I'm home, Hisoka-kun."

 

After a night in a cold hospital, the stuffy, disinfectant-filled air still sticking to his lungs, Homare found it comforting to be back in his own bed—more so when Hisoka climbed up the ladder to fix a pitiful stare on him until he moved over, letting the warmth and marshmallow-soft scent calm his restless thoughts. He supposed Hisoka was going through something similar, having not said a word since Homare had arrived home, and now clinging on to his shirt for dear life, knuckles tense and even whiter than usual.

“Hisoka-kun...”

“...he didn’t say anything...I didn’t realise..." Hisoka began to shake.

Homare put his arms around him, feeling as if for the first time just how tiny Hisoka was. “I’m aware that I’m the last person who should be saying this, but Azuma-san can be...difficult to understand at times.” He paused, gently lifting Hisoka’s face up to look at him. “Even so, I’m sure he just didn’t want you to worry. He does care for you dearly, after all.”

“It’ll be fine. Azuma-san will be home soon, and everything will return to normal.” Though Homare’s words were meant to reassure himself more than anything, it appeared to have a positive effect on Hisoka, and the two of them began to relax, if only a little.

Given that death was looming so close by, he may as well be more straightforward with his feelings every now and then. It was certainly better than leaving Hisoka in doubt—after all, if Azuma was coughing up blood without anyone knowing, who knew what could happen next?

“...I love you, Hisoka-kun.” A murmur of agreement, and Homare felt arms slipping around him and holding on tight. “I want you to always remember that.”

Just in case.

 

“Guess who’s back—?”

Izumi’s voice rang out from the foyer, and there being only one real answer, Hisoka took Homare’s hand, pulling him along to see. Trailing behind Izumi, waving demurely like a beauty queen at a parade, was—

“Azuma-san!”

There was a chorus of voices as everyone caught up, chattering about how wonderful it was to see him again and if he was really home for good and just what happened anyway; Izumi shushed them so Azuma could get a word in edgewise.

“I got...sick, but if I don’t strain myself too much I should be fine now.” He smiled wistfully. “Sorry if I worried anyone.”

Tasuku spoke up. “Well, what’s important is that you’re better, right?” A bit too forceful, but his restlessness from the past couple of days was written all over his face.

Gently, laying a hand on his childhood friend’s arm, Tsumugi added, “You can always tell us if something’s wrong, Azuma-san. We’ll be here for you, onstage or off.”

“I know...I’ll keep it in mind.”

“There better not be a next time,” said Tasuku, not unkindly.

Azuma laughed, a comforting and familiar sound. “I’d like to be here for as long as I can, so I’ll do my best to stay out of trouble.”

With that, atmosphere lighter and tension lessened, everyone began to disperse—but Hisoka felt something was off. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was bothering him nonetheless.

“Hisoka-kun? What’s the matter?” Homare squeezed his hand lightly, at which Hisoka only shook his head.

Homare frowned, for just a second, then his face lit up the way it did when he was about to rattle off another poem. “Azuma-san, a moment, if I may?”

A cloud passed briefly over Azuma’s face, but he smiled and nodded.

“I was thinking that perhaps Hisoka-kun should stay in your room tonight. Now that you’ve recovered, a weight has been lifted from my shoulders and I can resume my long-neglected voice training. After all, one must take care of a voice as beautiful as this, wouldn’t you agree?” Pausing, Homare’s self-satisfied expression softened. “And...Hisoka-kun worried greatly about you, Azuma-san.”

“Alice!”

Caught off-guard, Hisoka turned away, pouting and feeling warm, and he could practically hear the grin on Homare’s face.

“Though he’s being his usual prickly self about it, he was quite shaken up, so it would do him some good to catch up with you. Would that be alright?"

“Of course,” said Azuma. Out of the corner of his eye, Hisoka watched him—putting a hand to his face as his smile grew, eyes crinkling—and hoped that maybe he was wrong.

 

He was not.

Once he got up close to Azuma, he finally understood.

For the most part, nothing had changed. Azuma was the same, gentle hands tucking Hisoka in to bed and stroking his hair, warm embrace and soft voice enveloping him, but there was something missing.

Unlike times when he’d been out long in the day and smelt like the sun, or even when Homare had come home from the hospital smelling like cold air and anaesthetic, the ever-present scent of flowers remained, but Azuma himself smelled different.

Confused, Hisoka looked up.

“Is something wrong?” Azuma looked back at him with concern.

He considered it carefully, and shook his head. Azuma was home, and that was what mattered, everyone had said.

And yet, he felt nothing but worry as Azuma greeted him good night, and slipped into a peaceful abyss of dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> it took me 45328762357 years to finish this because i'd always write at ungodly hours of the morning when i'd be upset that azuma got pushed to the side for winter fanart but also now he's always with tasutsumu so the balance has shifted yet again. there may or may not be a continuation depending on whether my good "winter all have two hands" mood continues post-nocturnality
> 
> anyway now that this is done i can finally read current event story and be marginally less sad about azu (probably not)
> 
> thanks for reading!! you can find me at @esnoyuuutsu on twitter


End file.
